Mad Dancing
by Avium
Summary: [Brad x Ken, Ken x Brad] He is weakest when he is with me – like this. *Chapter 3 up*
1. The Quick Step

Mad Dancing ~ The Quick Step

Disclaimers: If I owned Weiss Kreuz, I'd give my friends Ranken, SchuOmi and BradSchu in the original anime & Gluhen, OVA and drama CDs. Aren't you glad that I don't? ^_~

Author: Avium

Rating: PG-13

Pairings: Crawford x Ken

Fic length: One-shot

Timeline: Indefinite

Author's note: Ah… A one-shot fic ^_~ Brad x Ken is taking over my mind at the moment thanks to a RP that I'm playing in right now. RPs sure makes you change your attitude towards certain characters *coughsBraddykinscoughs*… 

All my Ranken fics are running into long series, so I'm not going to post them until I determine that I can actually finish them ^_^:; 

**EDITED on 16th May 2003, REPOSTED 23rd May 2003**: All //Crawford// and //Ken// headers have been removed from the beginning of each of their segments. I did this after some discussion with one of my bestest (I know there is no such word) buddy, but was too lazy to repost them until now. So guess what? It's up to you to find out who is speaking when now ^_~ 

Remember that there is only Ken and Crawford speaking in this fanfic, and that they will always take turns when speaking.

-@-@-@-@-

Have you ever fallen down?

That's right – I am asking you a simple question. Have you ever fallen down?

  
No, don't give me your fucking metaphorical stumbles; about your emotions taking over you and causing you to go headfirst down the hill and smack into the boulder like something out of the Saturday morning cartoons. Just tell me already if you ever fell down and scrapped your knees raw, bleed yourself all over the pavement and bawled for mummy dearest.

You're hanging your head. You're shaking…no, trembling. Your eyes are darting back and forth – uncertain of how to answer this sudden, strange question…

You look up at last, and you whisper… "many times."

Thank you. That is a beautiful answer.

What? You want to know my answer now? Did I ever fall down?

… I did once.

Don't tell anyone, will you?

… Wait. Why am I asking you to keep a secret for me? That was my single mistake, and my only mistake. I fell hard enough to realise that the asphalt tastes like dirt and grim; that mud cushions you only to drag you under a moment later. They have no mercy for the weak.

I watch my step after that single incident. I never fall again, naturally.

Don't look at me that way – I don't want to see that pitying look in your eyes directed at me. I'm infallible. I cannot be hurt anymore. 

On the other hand, you're Weiß – the white that can be stained black; the white that encompasses all the other colours of the fucking pretty rainbow. The white that has already been tarnished. You've yourself to worry about.

I don't need your concern, or your mothering. All I need is you. Whenever I want you.

You understand?

Good - clever boy.

See? Everything will be fine if you just listen to me.

-@-@-@-@-

Every time I pass by the action figure section in the department stores, I always stop for a moment longer to look at the GI Joe figures.

What? You think that's weird? Dig Aya – he measures the out amount of soy sauce he needs using the tiny little cap that comes with the bottle, and he'll "shi-ne" you if you so much as breathe in the same room as him when he's doing so. But don't let him know I told you that – Aya hates having to discuss his quirks with anyone.

Man, it's freaky, you know? Who in the world has got biceps of that size? What were the manufacturers thinking when they designed these guys? Even those monsters on the WWE don't pack that much muscle in one body. Now if you split the muscles over 2 of those gigantic ring fighters, you *may* actually come close. Close, but not quite there yet.

Send guys of that size onto the battlefields, and I bet they'll win the war by ramming into the enemy tanks – whoo! Who needs elephants now, Hannibal?

Hmmm… This guy is the scariest so far – GI Joe Extreme…

You know who he reminds me of? Brad Crawford. GI Brad Extreme – now that's a nice ring to it, isn't it?

Hold those rude snorting noises back, lady. Listen to my explanation first. Gee, the way you are laughing, you must think I am a flipping pancake or something!

See, Crawford (I've got to say Crawford – he gets all stiff and upset whenever I call him Brad) has got this GI Joe mentality too. He won't believe it even if his mother told him, so Hidaka Ken trying to convince him of that is going to be worth 3 and a half headaches – with no guarantee of success. He may not pack as much meat as this guy, but he still goes into missions with complete assurance of a victory like these freaky action figures.

Yeah, yeah. I know what you're going to say. I've got something to say to you too - precognition schmescongition. And don't give me that "you know that cold, calculating bastard leader of Schwarz – Mr. Bullet-proof Man?"-kind of stuff. Typical, really. Clairvoyance plus confidence plus 101% accuracy with a handgun plus those flashy eyeglasses equals to V for victory for Schwarz. It's amazing that Weiß is still around after so long, right?

Crawford doesn't know it, but he's only human. He's mortal and fallible. He's so wrapped up in becoming untouchable that he's forgotten that he can still be defeated. All that confidence in battle is going to destroy him one day. 

I don't guess it – I know it. And I don't need to be a clairvoyant to know that either.

That's why he's got to hide it behind this little GI Brad Extreme façade.

It's quite sad, really.

-@-@-@-@-

Schuldich says a lot of crap, but I bet you know that already. He's been asking me if I'm alright. Quite a silly question, don't you think so? How can I not be alright? Now that question is most certainly the crap of the crap. I may have to teach him some manners one of these days.

The stock market is up again – a rather bullish week on Wall Street this week. I already knew about that, of course. It's not everyday you get a chance to milk every penny out of those loathsome big corporations and their…

Don't you like the wine, Ken?

Ah… You're looking at me with those turquoises again, Ken. I'm disgusted by how easily you display your emotions, but since we're in town enjoying dinner in a classy restaurant, I shall tactfully rephrase my sentence before I blurt it out. We can't have you running out into the streets and screaming vulgarities directed at me while in that suit now, can we?

"I can read you like a book, Ken," The fork feels strangely cold. Someone should be making sure that the temperature in this place isn't so low, "Would you like to tell me what is making you so upset tonight?" A proper gentleman's show of concern.

You shouldn't be playing with your dessert, Ken. It's bad manners. 

You look up at me at last, that brown fringe falling over your eyes and preventing me from seeing them. I don't like it when people avoid eye contact with me, Ken. It looks as if you are trying to hide something from me. And I don't like to be kept in the dark. 

So I reach over and push the offending locks out of my way, tucking them neatly behind your ear. Still, they insist on moving back to their original position. Curses, Ken, but you need some hair gel…

"Brad…" 

Lord, but haven't I told you before, Ken? I *hate* it when people call me by my first name…

Wait, that tone.

Oh, I understand now. Not going to make it, are we?

You're such a little boy at times, really. I've seen you kill; seen death taint you – and now you still manage to conjure up naivety when talking. More specifically, when asking for *that*.

I applaud you, Ken.

Now, we'll have to reward that innocence, don't we?

-@-@-@-@-

Crawford thinks he's so in control. I wonder if he even knows how weak he becomes whenever he gets too close to someone emotionally?

He won't tell me how he 'fell' the first time, and I don't think he would ever reveal that knowledge even under a real threat of death. He's being silly, but he calls me silly too whenever I prod him for an answer.

Do you know that Crawford is ticklish?

Funny, huh? The iceman of Schwarz – ticklish. Worth its weight in gold as a joke for his henchmen. I think Eszett will be pretty amused to learn that their highly prized field leader can be felled by a good tickle in the ribs.

I never hear him laugh even under those assaults, though. Instead, he will look at me and smile that scary razor-thin smile of his. I think he's biting his lips under that, but before I can reach over to break that fortress with my lips and steal from them answers, his hands are on my wrists and pulling them away. I know what follows after that – it's one of the rules of this game, but damn if I can stop my lungs from expelling all the air inside whenever he slams me back underneath.

Dirty, dirty tricks, Crawford. I wonder if you play rough because that is how you like it, or because you think I like it that way…

Stop. Rewind that thought. It's always about you, Crawford – you never really care about how I want it. At least you do care enough to make sure you're not the only one coming out satisfied. I blame your attitude towards perfectionism on that. 

Like I said – he thinks he's so in control of the situation. But I know his body better than he does. I know the unique slight twist that gets him trembling; the rate of his breathing that indicates how close he is; and that small area on his neck that you have to place your mouth over to get him in the mood – and I manipulate it all to last.

And when he falls back down against me after the release, he always presses closer into the crook of my neck, his warm breath washing over the skin there while his eyes remain shut. His hand will always tighten over my upturned one, interlocking our fingers as he wills his body to recover from its exertions. Sometimes he climbs off within seconds; other times, he inevitably falls asleep still inside of me. It's always strangely reassuring to see him sleeping – when his face is no longer so intent on looking unreadable. It's happening a lot more often these days.

Crawford doesn't think that I notice, but I do.

He is weakest when he is with me – like this. Naked, exposed and relaxed.

Brad Crawford is only a human after all.

-@-@-@-@-

Why are you looking at me like this, Ken? Sometimes, I'm just so sick of trying to read your emotions through your eyes. 

Do I have to remind you that you're Weiß and I am Schwarz? We became Schwarz because there was Weiß – we were made to be your mortal enemies. There is no way you can change this reality, painful as it is for you.

… I don't suppose you want me to take your hand, pat it and whisper comforting words to you now, do you? You'll have to take those bugnuks off first if you want me to do that.

There. Caught you, didn't I? You still don't trust me enough to remove your weapons in front of me. Or more accurately, in front of your leader – Abyssinian. 

Look at those eyes, Ken. I've never seen him so angry before. You should have fought back before I had you pinned to this wall; before I had my gun shoved against your neck. Nagi is holding him back, but I wonder how much longer will it be before he's forced to throw your leader backwards and break a few bones in the process?

I'm asking you a question. 

Why are you allowing us to do this to all of you?

But what I want *really* to know is why are you allowing me to do this to you?

Are you going to give me an answer, or do I have to hurt you?

-@-@-@-@-

Hurt me?

You've hurt me enough, Crawford. Maybe you should stop and think for a moment exactly who is hurting right now. Sometimes, you're so fucking stupid, I feel the urge to ram a pound of common sense down your throat.

That's right – you've Aya screaming and launching enough death threats to last you 75 reincarnations and more; you've Omi and Yohji knocked out on the ground; and you have me, Hidaka Ken, at your complete mercy.

So you say you're Schwarz, huh? Then do what Schwarz would have done.

Kill. Me. Now.

I mouth those words to you, and I see that mask of perfection cracking for the first time.

Kill. Me. Now. 

I repeat those words silently, but with more force this time. 

I watch amber eyes widen in understanding, and for the first time, realisation surfacing in those usually cold orbs.

You shouldn't cry now, Crawford. Everyone is looking at you.

… Don't cry, do you hear me?

Brad Crawford, I said don't break down now, dammit!

"I remember… the day that I fell," I hear your voice whispering into my ear.

"I fell the day I made a place in my heart for you."

~ End chapter 1

-@-@-@-@-

Author's notes: Aw, that was really crappy . In the end, Crawford states his "fall", and metaphorically no less. What a guy.

GI Joe reference attributed to my social psychology module – the chapter on self-perception. We have strange contents in that book…

Well, gotta go back to studying for my exams again. 4 down, 1 more paper to go -.-;;


	2. The Tango

Mad Dancing ~ The Tango

Disclaimers: If I owned Weiss Kreuz, I'd give my friends Ranken, SchuOmi and BradSchu in the original anime & Gluhen, OVA and drama CDs. Aren't you glad that I don't? ^_~

Author: Avium

Rating: (it's been upped, ladies and gents – watch out)

Pairings: Crawford x Ken

Fic length: 2/3

Timeline: Indefinite

Author's note: I lied – I said that 'Mad Dancing' will be a one-shot piece, and look what happened ^_^;; This second dance, 'The Tango', follows the events straight after the first dance. Let's just call this… a fast-paced dance of seething passions, shall we? ^.~

Obviously, it is a bad idea to write this straight after watching 'Bram Stoker's Dracula'. The casting for that movie was quite a disaster; they were cashing in on the actors' names instead of picking actors truly suited to the roles. Anthony Hopkins acted his bit brilliantly, though – "No, I just want to drive a stake through her heart and cut off her head, ja?" XD

**EDITED on 16th May 2003, REPOSTED 23rd May 2003**: All //Crawford// and //Ken// headers have been removed from the beginning of each of their segments. I did this after some discussion with one of my bestest (I know there is no such word) buddy, but was too lazy to repost them until now. So guess what? It's up to you to find out who is speaking when now ^_~ 

Remember that there is only Ken and Crawford speaking in this fanfic, and that they will always take turns when speaking.

-@-@-@-@-

I know what you are thinking about. No, I refuse to believe it. You can stop trying to convince me, Schuldich. 

::You're losing your touch, Brad. What is your purpose of taking the broken little kitten home with us? To let him memorise the route to our hideout so that they can plan an attack once you're done playing with him? Ja?::

He was out cold when we brought him here. And no, that is no my intention. I want him here; want him here so I can interrogate him. I want…

::The truth?::

Yes.

::The truth of WHAT, Brad?::

I can see you smirking, Schuldich. You're not giving me any respect, are you? I am your leader; you never question the actions of your leader, understand?  
  
::Hey, it's not my ass on the firing line here. You just go play with the kitten.::

This is not the way it's supposed to end. You were supposed to escape, Ken. Not try and take your precious Abyssinian's place when Nagi tried to kill him. I managed to stop Nagi from using the full blast at you, but you… look at yourself now. You're wasted, Ken.

::Aw, how touching. The little kitty is sick, and Brad is going to nurse him back to health so he can claw us all to death...::

I order you to leave my head now, Schuldich!

::Ja, ja… If you're going to play with the kitten, remember to leave some for Farfarello, okay? His hunger for blood has yet to be satiated from that little face-off we had.::

That had better not be a threat, Schuldich. You know where you stand in the team, so you better stay there. Now get out of my head!!

… No answer.

Thank you very much, you son of a bitch.

I touch your skin – my hands come away cold. You are shivering… trembling in pain and weak from blood loss. I can tell just by looking that your leg has been fractured by the impact… and your wrist – twisted oddly and shuddering… 

You are in pain, aren't you, Ken?

I can't get any closer than this. I'm sorry.

I… hurt too.

… What does my confession do for your pain anyway, Ken? It'll do nothing – it'll only add to my burdens. You are ordered to recover, Ken. So do just that. Don't make me force you into doing things again. I'm so tired of having to bend your will over.

So… tired…

-@-@-@-@-

You ever had the feeling that the sky fell down and struck you square on the head? Without a warning? Yeah well, guess what? They dropped the sky on my head *and* threw on Mount Everest for good measure. It feels like a 200-men orchestra tearing through my head right now, and lucky me – I've got free passes to the front row seats for the entire season. 

Jesus Christ, but that little psychokinetic on their team means business…! Fuck, my whole body aches like King Kong just used me for an exercise mat. 

I am up against the wall, wrists and legs shackled to prevent me from escaping. To tell the truth, I doubt I can escape anyway – my body is screaming with agony, and the slightest movement threatens to paralyse me with pain. My eyes hurt when I open them. There is a glaring white florescent light overhead and it's shining right into my eyes. Even when I seal them off I can still see the blinding whiteness under my eyelids. Who am I with now? The LAPD? CIA? Scotland Yard? MI5? Why the hell does my leg hurt so much? Why can't I move my right hand at all? And why am I forced against this sterile white wall…?

… Oh wait. Everything is all coming back to me now. Don't you just love it when realisation hits you like a ton of bricks on top of the Mount Everest? Fucking OW!

Schwarz… They attacked us out of the blue after we completed our mission. It must have been Crawford, being the clairvoyant that he is, that foresaw how weakened we would be by the mission and ordered the attack. He was going for Aya the entire time, of course – leader to leader face-off. I thought this shit only happens in the movies and TV.

I know Crawford's movements – they are familiar to me in more ways than one. I knew at that moment he would have pulled his trigger on Aya and killed him in a single shot. I won't let that happen – I won't let him take away from me the people that I care about anymore. I've lost enough.

Of course, jostling Aya right out of Crawford's path and shoving myself between his gun and the wall required a person to be of a certain calibre of intelligence to pull off. Guess which idiot won the lucky draw?

My mouth is dry: I smack my lips, trying to moisten them to ease the discomfort that I am experiencing. It hardly helps, leaving me to feel more dehydrated then ever. I can barely hear or see anything: my senses are all messed up. It's like taking crack, I suppose, only that I've never taken that shit before. But I know enough to realise that I'm suffering from a case of bad concussion.  A really bad case. 

And you know what can be worse than feeling aches all over and drier than the Sahara desert?

Farfarello sneering as he walks through the door and towards me with his knife.

Shit.

-@-@-@-@-

I never heard him screaming. I wonder did he even scream, or was his larynx so constricted by pain that he couldn't have made a sound even if he wanted to…? I only knew that something was wrong – it's that kind of feeling that you get in your bones and you don't know where it comes from; all you know is that something is terribly wrong.

Gone are the thoughts of filing a mission log; gone is the desire to lecture Schuldich. All I can feel at this moment is this sickly sensation swimming in my guts – the kind that I felt when they took my family from me. When they took everything that meant something to me in this world away… and left me alone.

I hardly rushed or ran in my entire life except during physical education – those dull sessions of sporting activities that promoted more violence than teamwork any day. I had good upbringing – you should never run even when in a hurry because it would reveal to others how upset you are at the turn of events. I was taught to display no emotions; I was to keep up this poker face for the rest of my life.

Now, I am running.

Now, I am panicking.

Now, my breaths are running short.

The door is half-open; I give myself a second to rearrange my clothes and push the hair out of my eyes before I step into the room. I don't recall ever biting my lip so hard before to stop myself from shouting out… or screaming.

"Farfarello…" I have to stay calm; I cannot afford to show any emotions, "What are you doing here?"

He turns to look at me, naturally, having heard the voice of their leader. The said madman tilts his head to one side in mock curiosity, his hands still pawing over your broken skin. I never felt this much anger before, I never felt so ready to kill someone.

I never… wanted so much to just scream and shout like a little boy whose favourite toy had just been broken before his eyes…

He frowns at me, of course, not understanding nor seeing my inner turmoil. Instead he takes his freshly-bloodied knife and shoves it back into his vest, his voice wispy as he speaks to me, "Schuldich told me that I could play with the kitten. He said that if I hurt him, I would hurt God because he is Christian…"

I want to hurt, I want to kill, I want to maim, I want to…

-@-@-@-@-

Pain.

Hurt.

Blood.

Enough of it and it overwhelms you – like the stink from a sewage processing plant, pungent and retching. At first it will hurt like a bitch, but after a while your brain automatically gets used to these vile sensations and will write them off as something to live with. Eventually the sensations die away, leaving behind a trail of numbing tingles – little electric sparks under your skin. Not too bad, if you think about it. In fact, a little more of it and I can *almost* live with it.

His hands are all over me, nails raking a path over my already abused skin. He is clawing… no, cutting into me with those hands. I can see the madness in those cold yellow eyes – dangerous drops of molten citrines following the movement of his fingers as they glide over my skin. It burns… the trail that blood forms seems to etch a fresh blaze of torment...

I can make out the silvery glint of his blade as he waves it at me, his eyes glistening with lunacy as the knife draws closer… and closer… 

It presses into my cheek: I feel warmth. I feel nothing else.

I feel… nothing at all.

So this is what it is like to die. I kind of like it, actually – this warmth and dullness…

Who is that calling out? I've got a bad headache and I just want to pass out – will somebody please spare some consideration around here?

"…Because he is Christian."

Heh. Because I am a Christian; so this blasphemous forsaken little lamb decides to carve me up into tiny bits. I want to laugh out at the irony of it, but I can't – my vocal chords have failed me a long time ago.

I hear another voice: deeper and harsher. I know that voice.

Brad Crawford.

Great, just great. Everyone including the neighbour's cat has come to see me in my most pathetic state, it seems. But with that voice comes relief, for I can no longer feel fresh pain blossoming on any part of my body – just the multiple old wounds hurting and squeezing together tightly. Involuntarily I arch my body forward, as if trying to draw myself closer to that voice that takes away my anguish.

The sudden pause of the conversation nearly escapes me, but I can just make out another pair of eyes looking at me – those burning ambers staring right back at me as cool as ever. I blink, but still he remains a blur – like a dream… or a nightmare. Angel or devil I can no longer make out against the blood and hurt.

The sound of an angry punch rips through the air, rudely drawing away my attention from the conversation. Someone is speaking, or actually, growling… And then, there is but one other person left in the room.

The door has been closed – I can hear it clicking shut. Another dull click – a second door knob? Wait… that is the lock. We've been locked in together. 

I force myself to raise my head to see whom I am left with, and I nearly cried in angry relief.

-@-@-@-@-

What has he done to you, Ken?

I don't know why Schuldich told Farfarello to come here – his motives are alien to me at best. All I know is that I came in and saw you for the worse – the wall that you have been chained to is now splattered with fresh crimson in an impressionistic fashion. So jarringly beautiful…

Do you want me to end your pain, Ken?

… Why are you glaring at me like this? It was your own fault for trying to save your leader – for throwing yourself in the line of fire. Do you know about the funny looks that I've been putting up with ever since I knocked Nagi off his feet when you got in the way of his kill? How do you expect me to live this down?

Hang on – you don't expect me to live it down, do you?

You made me fall, Ken. Not once, but twice.

I hate you.

I HATE you.

I so fucking want to kill you now, do you know that?

The cold metal against my side reminds me of how close a reality that can be – my handgun is still in its holster, Ken. I can kill you right now – end all your misery with one single bullet. Your life for a single bullet… Don't you feel angry, Ken? Upset? Enraged that with this tiny silver object that costs me only $2 can be used to trade for your life?

You are still staring at me… you are trying me, Hidaka Ken.

The gun leaves the holster, and I aim…

-@-@-@-@-

… Right at my heart.

I try to smirk, but my muscles are too tired to work towards such an expression. Instead, I part my lips and whisper to the heaving figure before me – the figure that has lost all traces of control…

"Goodbye, Brad."

Goodbye, Brad.

2 words, one sealed Fate. I doubt I actually said that out loud – I could only feel the slight vibrations forming in my throat as I mouthed those soundless words out to him. Will he kill me, I wonder? Will Brad Crawford kill me after all that he had done with me…? I don't want to see his eyes if he does pull the trigger and destroy all the memories in a millisecond, so I close them off and wait patiently for my destiny to unfold.

I can hear the gun being cocked, practically *sense* his finger over the trigger, trembling in rage.

I can hear the bullet leaving his gun.

I can hear glass shattering.

I can… still hear my heart beating. A little faster than usual, no doubts about that, but definitely still pumping away steadily.

Curious, I look up to see the smoking gun pointing towards the ceiling. With blurred vision I recognise a surveillance camera now reduced to a useless pile of metal and glass, parts continuing to fall off as if trapped in slow-motion. They hit the ground almost noiselessly, and I lift my head towards the man who reduced it to such a state.

The gun drops – metal on concrete. 

I hear a gasp, and a shuddering sob. I scan my surroundings for that tall figure.

Brad Crawford is on his knees, swallowing tears back by the mouthfuls.

I ache again… but in a different way.

-@-@-@-@-

Why couldn't I have pulled the trigger at you? Why couldn't I have just taken your life as easily as you took control of mine? This world is so unfair, Ken.

Do you know what justice is? It's something for the foolish men to thrive on – something for them to believe in should they ever find themselves experiencing a crap load of bad karma. It helps them live for another day, to not give up hope so soon.

You are fighting for this justice. And you are prepared to die for it.

… I can't. I don't believe in such tomfoolery.

So why can't I kill you? Your life is in my hands… I owned you the day you stepped into my car, so willing to listen to my wishes as I listed them out. 

Please tell me why things turn out the other way round – with you holding the reins to my chained emotions?

I am bitter. Lord forbid, but I am feeling *so* bitter…

There are tears… Funny how they taste bitter like bile, funnier still, how they seem to come from nowhere.

My cheeks are wet – why?

My throat is choking with gagging sobs – why?

I raise myself to my feet to glare at you – to seek out an answer to all this madness. Yet in my fury the tears continue to fall and mar my line of vision. I can make out the softly seeping trail of crimson down your cheek, and I reach towards it, cleaning it away with my fingers. They stain my suit as I drop my hand back down to my side.

You have tainted me.

You have ruined me.

I know what you have done to me, because I suddenly find my body involuntarily crushing against yours, assaulting your lips in rage with sensuous, grating motions.

I can taste your blood – it is flowing into me… Becoming part of me.

I hate you.

-@-@-@-@-

Sometimes I don't know if I prefer to be loved or to be hated. With Crawford, everything seems to be in moderation – he either frowns at me, or nods in acknowledgement. He never does anything in extreme, because he is Mr. Brad In-Control Crawford. To push him into sudden displays of emotion will require an inhuman amount of effort.

That's why his sudden passion scares me. A lot.

I mean, a frigging, huge lot.

I can feel his tongue trying to probe into me, and I give in – I had to learn it the hard way that Crawford must get his way all the time, and that is one lesson I won't forget in a hurry. I don't know which is more frightening – the fact that I'm tongue-kissing the man that is my mortal enemy; or the fact that he wants me so badly that he can ignore my present physical state…

His hand descends on my bad wrist, and I hiss into his mouth, knitting my eyebrows as I do so. He draws the offending limb away at once, almost as if he is concerned for a change. But I know better than to believe in the effects of my silent prayers. Instead, his hands slip around my waist and heave me towards himself against the restraining shackles, drawing me closer to his pooling urgent desires and needs. The chains rattle noisily against the wall, and I brace myself against the surface when I feel my wounds beginning to flow with fresh blood.

Deft fingers work away at the buttons of my already ruined clothes, leaving my wounds exposed to the chilling, stale air of this compact room. A growl automatically forms at the back of my throat – it dies when it travels into his mouth. When at last I am able to finally close my mouth and breath normally, I feel the insistent lips moving downwards, carefully avoiding the various cuts and bruises as it does so. Then just as suddenly he thrusts his clothed length against me, making me shudder against the flood of desires.

I can hardly breath.

Then it all stops. 

I crack open my eyes in frustration, both scared and angry that he may have decided to come to his senses all of a sudden and leave me awkwardly aroused. In a dazed stupor of passion I hardly manage to make out his hands reaching for the shackles at my legs first, then at my wrists, freeing me from my position against the wall. Weak from blood loss I fall forward. To my surprise he catches me – and allows himself to fall backwards with me still firmly in his grasp.

Now Brad Crawford is underneath.

-@-@-@-@-

Ken has always been light, yet I allowed myself to fall with him. 

I let myself fall onto my back. With Ken on top.

Somehow, the realisation does not scare me as much as I initially fear it will. Instead everything flows from there as if pre-choreographed. 

As if we have arranged this dance right from the start.

He wants this as much as me – why else are his fingers fumbling so ineptly but insistently at my belt? Why else did he lean forward to capture my lips with his so eagerly?

This is so wrong… This is not what I had foreseen.

So why does it feel so natural – your naked flesh against mine, Ken?

Kisses like bites – they descend upon my neck and work their way downwards. I swallow one gasp after another – I won't let you see the effect that you have on me. 

But I fail to stop that embarrassing moan when you take me inside of you.

On the first thrust I know everything is wrong – your leg isn't strong enough to support your movements, and your injured wrist hangs uselessly by yourself as you slide me inside of you using the force of your left hand against my chest. You are gasping – not in pleasure but in pain.

But I don't want to stop you. 

Because this feels strangely perfect.

-@-@-@-@-

I am no stranger to these sensations. Sometimes, I feel as if I've known this pulsing pain all my life in fact. 

But with you… each time I feel as if I've just danced with a stranger in a disco for 10-hours straight with no water in-between. It's like there is a dry spell inside of me – one that threatens to eat me from inside out. But the thought of downing liquid to drown out this terrible dryness does not appeal to me. 

Because this is how the dance between us should feel like – a potent, seething pleasure, heady with dizziness from the movement of your body against mine.

Sometime slow; sometimes fast. But always dangerous.

I feel your need rising as your hands fasten over my hips, pulling me into a rhythm that is solely ours and ours alone. You are trying not to make any noise – you won't be caught dead gasping with desires.

But today, you are underneath, and each impact I make against you I can feel the short, angry gasps inside of you just dying to escape.

One hand moves over my hurt leg, dragging it into a more comfortable position. Not that I care any longer – numbed pain… It's already part of this dance.

I feel the crescendo crashing against myself, and I gasp, spilling myself carelessly over you. But you keep me steady with one hand still on my hip and the other holding my shoulder – to keep me from falling against you.

In my glazed-over turquoises, I think I can make out the tears in your eyes.

-@-@-@-@-

I can feel him nearing… feeling him shuddering… and feel the evidence of his passion spreading over my skin. He is threatening to fall against me – to rest his head against my chest.

I won't let you get any closer, Ken.

I am nearing too, but in the blurring heat of desire I can still feel the sticky red liquid flowing from your wounds onto my hand gripping your hip. 

I should stop.

But I cannot.

Because I am dancing with you – like this. This is our dance. 

This is our last dance.

I hate you – you have poisoned me with your touch.

One hard thrust, and I can feel all my muscles falling into a relaxed state almost immediately. With parted lips I begin to draw in sharp, heavy breaths – to combat the quickly cramping muscles that you are sitting against.

You are still trembling – whether in pain or from your afterglow I've no idea. 

You reach over to my face and caress it for a moment, before pulling abruptly away to show me that they are wet… with a clear liquid.

I slowly sit up, pulling you against me as I do so to avoid aggravating your injuries. There is not a single sound from you to indicate your discomfort, if any at all. I cannot look into your eyes – I do not know what to expect to see in them.

I don't want your emotions tormenting me anymore than I wanted this.

Arms come around my back, tightening gently. This I have not expected. In turn I violently pressed my forehead against your neck, watching on helplessly as the dam breaks.

I hate you.

"What have you done to me, Ken…?"

~ End chapter 2

-@-@-@-@-

Author's notes: Whee! It's been ages since I did smut ^_^;; I hope this came out okay. Not sure when the final chapter will be up, but once I get a germ of an idea in my head… it's time for all to head for the hills! XD


	3. The Bolero

Mad Dancing ~ The Bolero

Disclaimers: Honestly, if I owned these guys, don't you think I would have inserted this fanfic into the regular TV series instead?

Author: Avium

Rating: (another one of those higher rating fics – gotta love me)

Pairings: Crawford x Ken

Fic length: 3/5

Timeline: Indefinite

Author's note: Fudge it – I've decided to add 2 more chapter to 'Mad Dancing' after all ^_^;; So it'll be a 5-parter instead of just 3 chapters, or the initial one-shot when I first wrote it. I wonder how much more of my nonsense can people take?

If anything doesn't seem to connect or make sense, don't fret. It'll all fall into place. Eventually.

-@-@-@-@-

It's not that I mind being kept in the dark. For almost 2 years I have worked with Yohji and never knew anything about his former lover except that she was killed while they were on the job. And suddenly, he told us just about everything there was to the girl - Asuka - from their meeting to their last assignment together. Omi had nodded knowingly - I bet he had been snooping around Yohji's files since that tall blonde joined us. Aya… well - he's Aya. He never cared about Yohji's past except when it started to interfere with his work. I doubt Aya would have batted an eyelid at Yohji's past unless the latter owned a soy sauce empire and burnt crisp bank notes for fun.

Then there was the whole ruse about Omi's past as Mamoru. Fucking damn, but no one told me anything, and to think that I was the second member to join Weiß after him. I only learnt about it after receiving the mission files on the kidnappers at the same time as the rest of the team did. So much for having spent quality time with our genki little florist.

So I guess you can say that I'm used to being the last one to get to know anything - probably because it looks easy to hide everything away from me.

But how was I to know that Schwarz meant it literally when they talked about keeping me in the dark?

They had left me in the same room that I was brought back to, but Crawford had insisted that they blindfolded me so that I would not be able to spring a surprise attack on them when they come in, since they are unable to monitor my actions through the camera anymore. He came in that day with the little psychokinetic in tow, and having ordered the boy to restrain me, tied the black strip of cloth over my eyes.

I had seen the young Japanese - Naoe Nagi - just before my line of vision was obscured by the fabric. I had taken his charming orphanage Sister from him a year ago, and I could never forget the spiteful Spinel-blue eyes glaring at me in utter contempt, especially when they were boring into me at that moment. I didn't have to be able to read minds to know that he had probably mentioned to Crawford the possibility of killing me straightaway instead of securing me like a kidnap victim.

I wonder what Crawford had said to that statement…?

I did not fight back, not because Nagi was there. But because when the dead knot was tied, familiar fingers had tangled themselves in my hair; they ran through my unruly locks and caressed gently for the briefest of moments before Crawford rose to his feet and walked away.

And turned the lights in the room off too, the bastard.

I have no means of telling time in that dark little cell. There are no ticking clocks to let me guess the amount of time that have elapsed; there are no windows for sunlight and moonbeams to seep through and heat or chill my skin so that I may at least guess the number of days that has passed. All that I have with me at this time are my healing injuries - a slow burning sensation as they seal off naturally.

That is all that I know about. Concepts of time are long lost to me; senses are dulled by a lack of stimulants; and the deliberately cruel touches as my wounds are cleaned and my body splashed with icy cold liquid are the only things left for my brain to process.

That had better not been you, Brad Crawford.

But then again, there is no telling who it is that cares so much and yet so little at the same time...

I curl up into foetal position, resisting the urge to wince in pain at my old wounds. This place is the same whether during daytime or the night - always silent until a commotion is stirred up out of the blue by either the German or the madman. There will be some bickering, a few harsh words exchanged and maybe a bit of a fistfight. But as soon as it begins, it will end.

It's a little like back at home.

… I'm cold.

-@-@-@-@-

"I understand, Crawford."

Good – that is all that I ask of you, Nagi. And thank you for your offer to put the surveillance camera together, but that Hidaka is too weak to even put up a token of resistance, let alone formulate grand escape plans – we can manage without it.

There is so much that I have to account for after we brought you back, Ken. Not only have I to watch that Schuldich doesn't set Farfarello on you again, I now find myself having to explain my actions to the youngest member of Schwarz – Nagi. It feels ridiculous at this moment – it is akin to a father having to explain his own decisions to his son. 

I don't like my actions to be questioned. Not by you, nor Schwarz. I answer only to myself.

That's why I lay in bed, chiding myself night after night and wondering which spirit of insanity it was that had possessed me into practically kidnapping you. But I know berating myself is of little use – what is done has been done.

Wretched Fate.

But you won't know about it, of course. I will not allow myself to doubt my decisions openly, and neither will I allow anyone else to doubt them. If I had brought you back here, then I must have done it for some reason… perhaps for something yet to happen.

It'll fall into place, this little turn of events.

Eventually.

Because I am Brad Crawford of Schwarz. I am incapable of errant judgements. All my actions will explain for themselves in time to come.

I will not tolerate any more errors – neither on my part nor yours. So as long as you cooperate with me, Ken, I can assure your safe departure from this place.

The stack of paperwork on my desk seems to be multiplying by itself. Only yesterday did I have to bail Schuldich out for going over the legal speed limit for the 5th time this year, and what word of thanks had I received from him? A smirk and a, "I bet you would have done it for the kitten too."

Then there's Nagi – the legal guardianship that I've been applying for was rejected yet again for some strange reason. I thought I had Nagi to hack into the database to make sure that everything checks out fine, but apparently the kid isn't listening to me as much as he should.

Don't get me started on Farfarello.

…

Why are you trying to eat the doorknob now?

-@-@-@-@-

Sometime between today and forever, someone had forgotten to close the door to the disco in my head and the bouncers are on strike, leaving all the scumbags of the streets free to enter the club. It's not quite a pain – I know more than enough as to what pain feels like. It's just this dull, throbbing pulse rocking my head back and forth and blurring my vision. 

I mean; if I can actually see the black fabric in front of my eyes dancing around, that has to be bad news, right?

Right.

Then there are these little waves of heat running up and down my spine; coming to concentrate at the back of my skull. I suppose I have managed to catch a chill after all despite my strong bodily resistance. Who won't, after being left half-naked in an empty room isolated from the central heating? And the cold baths probably share some of the responsibility as well.

One hand tries to reach up to my throat and scratch at the rigid column of flesh. The urge to tear away the burning sensation locked within my throat is threatening to eat me alive, but with wrists bound together there is very little I can do. Considering the fact that I've been a model prisoner for the past few… days, you will think that Schwarz will treat me a little better.

Remind me to flay them alive if the roles switch around, okay?

And Crawford… I suppose it must have been him taking care of me for the past few times, because it damn well doesn't seem likely that his henchmen have suddenly decided to treat their mortal enemy decently. Except for the ridiculously icy scrubbings and harsh bandaging of wounds.

… Definitely remind me to take revenge for the blindfold. How the heck do they expect me to see my caretaker?  
  
Oh, yeah – that *is* the whole point. I am not supposed to be able to see them and attack them – DUH! Someone must have swapped their brains for donuts: how in hell do they expect me to attack them with my hands tied to my back in the first place?

Shuffling to my feet unsteadily, I lean against the wall and begin to pad along the perimeters of the room. I know it will be pretty useless to try and escape through the door, since I heard it being locked the last time it was opened. But I just want to lean up against it.

So maybe… I can hear when someone comes in for me. It's perhaps my own source of comfort – that I will no longer be alone in the dark.

It's pretty easy to tell the door apart from the wall. For one thing, it's made out of wood. For another, there is this protruding part called a 'doorknob' sticking out of it. I walk right into it, oblivious.

Oh my Jesus FUCKING Christ! That fucking HURTS!

As I double over from having painfully jammed my hip into the metal doorknob, I slide forward and my mouth awkwardly meets the doorknob.

… Ow.

The best part comes when the door finally decides to open from the other side and swing right into me.

-@-@-@-@-

I'm quite sure that we don't starve you to the extent that you have to eat the doorknob, Ken. So will you be so kind as to explain to me why you are trying to eat my perfectly good doorknob?

From you I hear no answers, and for the tiniest of moments I am worried that you are suffering from a relapse of your concussion after the door met your face. I reach for the light switch that is located outside the room and instantly your cell becomes a blinding white, invoking me to raise my hand over my eyes hurriedly, least I go blind.

I hear a gasp escaping you as the light rushes over your skin; watch you as you shiver and press yourself against the wall as if you are trying to escape from the light. I understand, of course – we have been keeping you in the dark for over a fortnight and the corridor itself is poorly lit. I was once told what this response is called – light starvation. Victims of such a disorder will find themselves disoriented and extremely sensitive to brightness for at least the next few hours until their senses begin to work normally again, having been used to groping in the dark the whole time.

I have not actually seen you clearly the entire time, Ken.

This is not my usual time for coming in to see to your needs, Ken. It'll make the others suspicious.

Why do you keep trying to push me into doing things that betray my basic character?

The door clicks shut behind me and I move to the other end of the room. I turn to watch you – a trembling little mammal, panting and gasping as if you have just ran for 20 miles without stopping. With a large predator pursuing you during that period no less…

"What were you doing at the door?" The next moment I am biting my lips again, silently admonishing myself for not being able to contain my curiosity. You finally turn towards me, body still shaking as you tilt your head in my direction.

"I wanted to know if anyone was coming…" An unhurried, dry swallow, "So that I can get a drink of water."

I wish you would stop being so honest, Ken. It sickens me to death.

Mouthing a curse under my breath, I reach for the small flask of brandy that I keep in my pocket. I wonder if it is a good idea to let you consume alcohol, considering that you've yet to ingest a proper meal today. But I know that if I am to go to the kitchen to get you what you asked for, I will have to deal with Nagi's glares. He's taken to studying in the kitchen after we placed you here – right next to his room…

I swirl the liquid around the flask lightly, the noise strangely audible within the confines of this room. Liquid in the voice-stealing desert.

Well, Ken. I do have something for you to drink. But you've got to come over and get it.

-@-@-@-@-

Bastard.

You know that I can hardly make out the size of this room in my feverish state, let alone walk over to you to get a sip of water. But you still insist on making me do just that.

I drag myself to my feet, growling as I finally place my body weight on my soles. The fever has left me weak and light-headed, and walking is a task best left to Hercules to perform now. But I need the water, and you're being a stupid asshole. So I have to get over to you. Crawl, stumble or run over you don't seem to care – as long as you can make me walk towards *you*.

I used to think that asking a drunken man to walk in a straight line was funny, especially when I once bet with Aya that Yohji won't be able to do that. The said man failed by falling smack on top of our fearless leader during that challenge which he took up most eagerly, and I got the next day off. Aya still insists that it's a fluke, of course, saying that Yohji could have done it if I didn't have my football so near the invisible straight line.

Today, I am not drunk, but I walk in a strange, feet criss-crossing fashion.

Today, there is no football, but I still stumble and fall.

Today, unlike on that day, there is no one to cushion my impact against the chilly concrete.

An angry grunt escapes me as I make facial contact with the floor. I can laugh off the jokes that people thrust onto me at my expenses, but in front of you… don't you think that I've lost enough already, Crawford? What is this ridicule worth to you – a plaster over your wounded pride? For having shredded tears in front of me?

Firm hands come around my shoulders and jerk me into a kneeling posture. I can hear a bottle cap being unscrewed, and I lean closer to the source of the noise. Next I can feel your hand latching under my chin and tilting my head upwards as you tip the bottle against my lips. The fiery liquid rushes over my lips and into my mouth, choking me with their unnatural heat.

That is not water, is it, Crawford?

Bittersweet burning fire – clawing its ways over my tongue and down my throat. It only worsens my thirst and stokes the fire already burning in the pits of my stomach. I try to close my lips against the torrent of liquid, but your hand keeps them firmly apart until the bottle empties.

A noisy clang as the tin flask is tossed across the room and strikes the wall.

"I hate you."

I can feel your warm breathes washing over my burning lips as the declaration is formed. Then stern, angry hands coming around the back of my head and struggling with the knot of my blindfold before it is rudely removed.

Blinded by the light.

-@-@-@-@-****

I watch those dazed turquoises blink rapidly as they become exposed to the glare. He is trying to keep his eyes shut, but his control over his muscles are evidently slipping. As soon as those eyelids flutter shut they leap open wide again – errant and unpredictable muscle movements. 

Like a broken toy.

His arms are struggling against the bonds that hold him, and in a gesture of overwhelming generosity I reach over and begin to carefully undo the ropes binding his wrists together.

He collapses against me yet again when freed. I can feel the twitching of his muscles; I can feel the burning sensation conveyed in each painful flexing. 

I grasp him by his face and pull him up close to my own, glaring right into those darting turquoises with my own dark amber ones.

Do you hear me, Ken? I hate you.

I am full of contempt for you; full of contempt against you.

A frustrated growl slips past your lips as you struggle weakly against my tight hold over you. Your eyes continue to betray your weakened state as your hands fasten over my wrists and begin to clutch feebly at them. 

You want to know why I am doing all these to you?

It's because I hate you, Ken.

I HATE you.

That's why I scare myself when I suddenly drag you into my arms and crush you in a painfully choking embrace. When your hands still continue to pound against my chest dully. When your lips are shoved against mine and dancing that slow, lazy dance…

Lord, I so fucking hate you, Ken.

-@-@-@-@-****

I am not quite sure what is that shit that Crawford gave me. I have only 2 hints to work with so far – it burns when it goes down my throat, and it tastes like crap.

It can only be alcohol – the best cure for liver cancer by burning the entire organ away.

Now, I may not touch that stuff much, but I know enough to realise that consuming something like that on an empty stomach is going to get you sloshed double-quick. There's nothing quite like getting drunk when your senses are already shot by your fever. The best thing to do in such a situation is to find someplace warm and lie down to sleep away the throbbing headache.

The only source of warmth in this entire place is in his arms.

It's can also be found against his lips.

And… yeah, that familiar, hot hardness I find pressing into my stomach when I lean against him.

Why do you want me so much, Crawford, when you say time and again that you hate me so?

From you I can get no answers. All that there is left to feel is the heat from you – reassuring warmth from another human being. Granted, you have as much of a chance of being a human as a lawyer, and you declare your loathing of me aloud every single time we are alone. 

So why do you want me so much?

How can you still want me? Now?

Your white clothes blend in perfectly with the whiteness of the room – like a chameleon trying to melt into the surroundings. All this white is blinding me, Crawford. And the heat… Christ, all these heat…

The red heat seeps in from all over – sometimes from my head, sometimes from your arms. At times, I can't even tell where the dull burning is coming from. Perhaps it is because of this lip-lock that we are now in – I am so caught up in the taste of you; the sensations of you – that I can no longer tell my desires apart from my needs. 

My hand goes for the zipper that I know is always there, and finally catching it between my fingers, begin to pull at it.

The only sound left, as far as I can tell, is that overpowering metallic sound of each tooth in the zipper coming apart. Slowly, seductively…

Your hand, clammy with sweat, falls over mine accidentally as you reach for the buckle of your belt, and after undoing it; tosses it aside carelessly. It hits the floor with a single clang, and then the room is silent again, except for the sound of your breathing and mine.

Harsh.

Angry.

Loud.

Breathless.

-@-@-@-@-

This is madness. I am being consumed by the devil; I am going to waste when I am with you.

The dance should have ended a fortnight ago. When I told myself that it would be the last time I am allowing myself to get so close to you. Now I know why I am trying to impose such a rule on myself.

Because with you, I am lost.

Your hands are trailing over me, touching with familiar intimacy. I hate that feeling of closeness that we share together – it reminds me of exactly how weak I become around you when I am forced to throw aside my façade.

You are destroying me, Ken. Not just me, but everything that I stand for.

I hate you.

But don't stop now. 

I like that feeling as much as the rational side of myself tries to deny it – your hands over me, firmly stroking and tugging, feeling and enticing. Contemptuous lies, I tell myself again and again: that is what my feelings are towards you. It's just the physical closeness that I am so obsessed over when it comes to you – the completion of the union. Do I sound too cliché when I say it feels a bit like crashing down into the flames of the underworld and suddenly touching the very first clouds of the sky the next moment when we are together like this? I guess it does.

But don't stop now.

It strikes me on how shockingly cold the room is when you have pulled my pants halfway down my thighs and are now holding me down firmly. I take the chance to check on myself, and am startled to find that I am now flat against the ground, propped up only by my elbows as you position yourself between my legs. For the longest time you do nothing and instead stare at me with those eyes of yours – volatile, tempting and…

Fuck.

-@-@-@-@-

How does that feel, Brad Crawford?

… You can't think clearly anymore, can you?

Good – because I hate it when you think too much; when you spend your time being that cold, calculative prick instead of paying attention to those around you.

Or in this case, yourself: you never seem to pay attention to yourself. It explains why you are always so out of touch with your own body – its reactions, its sensitivities, and its hunger.

You have always been an insatiable monster, Brad Crawford. Your thirst for power and your ambition easily put to shame a whole historical line of dictators. Your craving for adulations and respect make you blind to the number of innocent people that you have to crush underfoot or even annihilate to get where you want to go. 

Yet you don't seem to acknowledge the desires of your body – its wants and needs…

So it is really so hard to accept the fact that you can want and desire like any normal human being, Crawford? I seriously doubt I can make you gasp any louder than you just did when I took all of you inside my mouth; when I have you displaying your lustful nature openly.

Don't try to cover your face now – I want to see all of you. 

I want to see you wanting this.

Wanting…

Just wanting.

-@-@-@-@-

How can there exist such a heat within a single human body? It burns so thrillingly and slowly one moment, and then seethes and tears at bones the next. 

Are you feverish, I wonder? Or am I the one that is delirious?

Because this feels like a dream; like a nightmare where I have no control over myself. A paralysing need for such base needs. 

I hate you, I hate you, I hate you… I hate myself.

Why does your tongue seem to burn into my flesh and mark me in a demonic fashion? I think I know the name to these sensations: it is called pleasure. It's a feeling that I try to avoid because it makes me incapable of functioning properly as a leader, because it makes me weak.

That's why I hate you for making me fall, Ken. What was it that attracted me to you right from the start? Your almost laughable sense of justice? The far and few glimpses of the innocence in your eyes? Or was it just that I opened up to you for no reason? 

No, there had to be a reason… But I can't think when you are so intent on bringing me to the plateau that I don't want to reach.

Because I am scared of the sharp fall that follows each time I reach that pinnacle.

Rougher, harder, more demanding… Your nails are cutting into the skin along the inside of my thighs, marking them with small red crescents. I don't know if the liquid I feel pooling around your fingers is my blood or just sweat.

I force my elbows into position under myself so I can push myself up – to watch you and try to read your expression. Fierce concentration – that is all I can make out from your knitted eyebrows and closed eyes. Dare you not look at me?

There is no moment of greater shame then when I feel myself approaching that point of no return, uttering that sharp, unbecoming gasp and finally spilling myself into you while you still persistently continue drinking that bitter essence.

Why? Why are you doing all these?

-@-@-@-@-

This is not the first time that I've tasted you, but the flavour is so alien to me that I am bewildered as to how I can accept such an exotic, warm liquid as it slips down my throat and runs right down into the core of my being – where all the heat had gathered.

The wet stickiness coating the inside of my mouth seems a stark contrast to the sheer reality of the situation. Against my own heavy breaths I can hear your deeper, sharper ones – drawn rapidly and hungrily as you always do whenever you want to recover from the act immediately. It's not humanly possible, of course. I prove it by slowly climbing over that heaving form and hovering above, our faces only inches apart.

Those pools of amber are blurred under your fogged up glasses – perhaps you mean that to happen so that I cannot see you clearly. But it's alright, Crawford. 

Because what your face hasn't shown, your body had already betrayed.

You are shifting again; you are trying to lift yourself off the floor and out of that submissive posture. That dizzying heat returns the moment your chest meets with mine, and as I lose my balance I fall against you gasping at the returning fever.

Is that reality, or am I building castles in the air again when I feel your lips crushing against mine in a desperate open-mouthed kiss?

… It must be the real world. In fantasies, there are no painful spectacle frames to poke into your cheek. Such a crude reminder of the realness of the situation that we are in. We are no longer holding back – we are just feeling, tasting and sensing each other…

Can you accept this, Crawford? This sweet bitterness that I have savoured so clearly only moments ago?

"Well, well, well – Looks like someone has been feeding the kitten properly after all…"

… I guess not.

-@-@-@-@-

The real world bites.

Just when I am drowning in this fatal art, just when I think I have finally found a moment of peace, Fate rudely enters the scene in the form of a telepathic German.

I try to maintain my composure as I roughly shove him off, dignity lost as I struggle with my disobedient pants before the zipper is finally pulled back up. All I know is that I am angry at this disturbance, and a maybe just a little upset at being spied on by my own subordinate.

"Schuldich… How long have you been standing there for?"

A flippant tone addresses the question, "Long enough to see that the kitten has gotten some cream."

He is standing so calmly and casually at the doorway: his back against the doorframe and one foot shoved against the opposite side… I cannot accept how he is glaring at me, those deep blue Tanzanites boring into me… then shifting over to Ken.

I swear by God: it is an automatic reaction as I shift myself over to shield Ken from his gaze.

Even with the distance between you and me, Ken, I can feel the heat from you burning into me…

::Which devil possessed you into doing such a thing, Brad?:: A tinge of hurt and disgust.

Lord help me, for I wish I knew…

~ End chapter 3

-@-@-@-@-

Author's notes: Schuldich is not a voyeur, because that would make me one as well. Don't ask.

Ken's seme tendencies are showing. Hmmmm…

Further chapters will appear as and when I am inspired to write them.


End file.
